


Hakkuruberi kana...

by CorvidFightClub



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, Torture, Yakuza, i'm using the "i'm your huckleberry" line appropriately, i've watched tombstone, this has probably been done but i don't care, witness me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-20 09:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10659639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFightClub/pseuds/CorvidFightClub
Summary: Hanzo is finishing up an undercover mission in Japan when things go sideways. McCree will eventually get to say "I told you so" after tearing his way across Eastern Europe to get his man back.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow I've become Overwatch McHanzo trash. How did this happen? Nobody knows. I accept my fate.
> 
> Big thanks to Emma for betaing and helping yours truly from seeming like an insensitive douchecanoe. She's the real MVP <3
> 
> Ps. I tried my best to be careful with the Spanish, but if ever something is used incorrectly or inappropriately, please let me know.

Hanzo sat in the far corner of the busy  _ izakaya _ , watching the patrons gather and drink, the staff bustling behind the counter, filling orders. He ate slowly, savoring the tender  _ basashi _ . It had become rarer now. Practically unheard of in Gibraltar. Disappearing like many things had a way of doing. It had been years since he had sat in this seat, hiding from his duties to his family for a few stolen hours in the mixed crowds of Shinjuku. A secret between Hanzo and his bodyguards, too embarrassed by his ability to give them the slip to mention the transgression to his father. Just as well, Hanzo thought, sipping his sake. It would have been a poor thing if the heir to the Shimada empire had been unable to out-pace his own men.

An empire of ruins now.

Hanzo sat back in his seat, adjusting the collar of his suit. Nothing but another businessman drinking after work hours. 

The mission had been a quiet success. Overwatch had gotten wind of a growing arms-trade north of Tokyo pulling in weapons from the states, ‘discreet as a bull in a china closet’ Jesse had said. After reading the reports, Hanzo had to agree. Messy, directionless children of some overreaching  _ shateigashira.  _ Hanzo had insisted on traveling to Japan alone while a second team rooted out the points of contact in California. 

“Not that I don’t believe in ya, but at least take Genji,” Jesse had pleaded against his shoulder blade as they lay in bed with the lights out, the smoke from Jesse’s cigarillo rising from the ash tray on the night stand.

“Genji is needed here,” Hanzo had replied. “I will move faster alone.”

“I don’t give a lick how fast or slow you go, I just want you home afterwards.”

Hanzo had smiled in the darkness despite himself. “I will be going to get information,” he had said. “If I were going to kill them all, I would bring Genji. These families, they are very traditional. They would not talk to someone who glows green.”

Snorting, Jesse had pulled their bodies closer. “Guess he’d fit in better around California anyways.”

So Hanzo had landed in Tokyo as a wealthy businessman, seeking to expand his holdings in his home country after succeeding in America. After a few carefully selected inquiries to certain possible business partners, little brothers from the families had made themselves known, interested in company shares. It had been difficult, pretending to be the prey while he sifted through their ranks to identify those who waited, more patient, more arrogant because they already had a foothold in the states. Then to trace them back to their families and their territories. A few nights spend tailing little brothers yielded places, names, buyers. Two of them now fed the fish in the  _ shateigashira’s  _ koi pond, killed in the style favored by a rival family. Hanzo and his businessman persona had disappeared, rumored to have gone back to the states while the families turned on each other.  

Hanzo placed his chopsticks into the holder on the table and stood, reaching for the check, when the room dipped to one side. He blinked hard, hand resting on the back of his chair to steady himself while the dizziness passed. He’d gone soft, drinking the weak alcohol Jesse insisted on bringing to meals. Hanzo made note to purchase a bottle of top-shelf sake before boarding the plane in the morning. 

After paying his bill, Hanzo ducked out onto the street, the banners and red lanterns outside the  _ izakaya _ snapping in the breeze. Winston had already received his report of names and suggested places for sting operations. All that remained was to return to his hotel room and phone Jesse before turning in. The cowboy had insisted on a nightly check-in.

Then he felt it, a growing pressure on his shoulders, the feeling of being observed. Followed. Hanzo kept his pace steady, keeping his attention forward. He found he couldn’t focus on anything in the distance, his vision blurring. How long had they been following? There had been many opportunities for attack before this; they must have seen him go into the  _ izakaya.  _ He wove himself into the crowd, trying to walk without jostling. Weakness was moving down his arms, making every step feel sluggish. Whatever they had slipped him was slow-moving. He needed somewhere to hide while he rode out the effects. Trying to remember what section of the city he was in, Hanzo stole down a narrow alley lined with cheaper bars. He scaled the fence chain link at the end of the alley, his landing clumsy on the other side. Further down and around a building, the alley ended in a high wall, climbable under normal circumstances, but every time he looked up he felt himself start to fall. 

A sound--the clink of the chain link fence being surmounted. Still following him.

Grounded, Hanzo felt for the knives hidden in the back of his belt. A figure came around the corner, composed of brown and violet smudges. 

The blow was hard and fast to the back of his skull, and his arms would not cooperate to save him from hitting the ground. The figure came closer, became a woman.

“ _ Pendejo _ ,” she hissed. “I wanted to fight him.”

“What the hell are you doing out here? Get back to base,” what sounded like a man’s voice if it had been composed of gravel and broken glass, seething and dark as the shadows crowding Hanzo’s vision. The cold barrel of a gun dug into his temple.

“No no, you don’t get to waste him,  _ búho _ . I caught him fair and square!”

Their words became far away, voices underwater, arguing whether to splash his brains all over this dirty alley in  Roppongi .

“As I told you, he is  _ valuable _ if you don’t kill him.”

A growl. “Fine,” the man said. “He’s your problem for now. If he compromises us, I fill his skull with lead.”

“Si si, I know.”

 

\--

 

McCree almost slapped his phone off the nightstand when the alarm started crowing at him. Jetlag had him laid out flat as a new choir boy in church. He shut off the alarm and rolled onto his back, shoving a headphone into one ear and resting his phone on his stomach. Hanzo would be calling him in a few minutes. Much as he liked his shut-eye, Hanzo ranked higher on his list. McCree reached a lazy hand to the bedpost and grabbed his hat, settling it over his eyes to keep the city lights out, too comfortable to get up and close the shades. They had a couple more loose ends to tie up here in Cali before it was back to Gibraltar. Hanzo was due back at base a day earlier, which was just serendipity. 

McCree dozed, thinking about taking Hanzo to see the desert. Not much light out there except the stars. A sky you could get lost in. Take an old pick-up truck out there, pad the truck bed with sleeping bags and pillows--McCree jerked awake, tipped his hat back and checked the time, checked his phone for missed calls. Three-thirty now. McCree frowned. You could set your watch by Hanzo; up at dawn outside, easing his way through Tai Chi forms with his eyes closed, blue light flickering under his skin. Something about it soothed the dragons, Hanzo had said once.

A couple more minutes, McCree decided. Then he’d try calling Hanzo.

He tried thinking about the desert again, but this time it was the snakes, the scorpions, the heavy heat that came to him. The memory of hiding in the shadow of a cactus until it was cool enough to move at night, find water. 

Three-forty and he was tapping on Hanzo’s contact info, sending the call. It rang until it hit the automated voicemail,  _ The number you have dialed 8-1-- _

McCree hung up _.  _ He stared at the hotel ceiling, trying to reason it out. Hanzo was stuck on a subway, maybe in a ‘business’ meeting. Shit, he shouldn’t have let Hanzo go. He pushed himself out of bed, went out onto the small balcony and lit a cigarillo. Cities in Cali never slept, just got quiet for awhile. Sirens called out in the distance and McCree had to remind himself they weren’t after him. He leaned his elbows on the metal railing, looking at his phone.

Four in the morning. Nothing good happened at four in the morning.

McCree flicked through his contact list, tapped on Fareeha and waited for her to pick up. She didn’t sleep much. Her and Jack were peas in a pod like that.

“McCree, why are you--”

He ducked his head even though she couldn’t see it. “Evenin’--well, here anyways. Could you do a cowboy a solid?”

Fareeha sighed, “What is it?”

“I need you to check on Hanzo.”

“Jesse, he’s undercover. We could compromise him.”

“ _ I know _ ,” McCree gritted. “I know. We have a schedule. He was supposed to call, never did. I got a bad feeling, Fareeha. Hanzo is more regular than the sun comin’ up. This ain’t like him.” He could hear her considering it and added, “Please.”

“I’ll ping the GPS on his comm. Anything else is too big a risk.”

“Thank you, darlin’,” McCree said, sagging in relief. He started pacing the small balcony, the cement rough under his bare feet. He’d walked out of the bathroom from a shower to Hanzo standing in front of the mirror, tugging the cuffs of a blue dress shirt straight. McCree had stood there, struck dumb, naked as the day he was born with a towel around his waist. Hanzo had shaved his beard off, dyed the gray hairs at his temples the same black as the rest of it. 

“You are getting the carpet wet,” Hanzo had said, meeting McCree’s gaze in the mirror.

“Carpet can take it,” McCree had answered, He had sat on the corner of the bed just...looking. 

Hanzo had turned on him, eyes narrowed, “What?”

“You don’t look like yourself, is all.”

“That’s the idea.” Hanzo had wrinkled his nose, finished knotting his black tie. 

“Anybody else seen you yet?”

“No.”

“Good,” McCree had said and gotten up. He’d grabbed Hanzo’s tie and pulled him close, kissed him like their lives had depended on it. There was that crackle, the electricity that always shook McCree in his boots when they got close, like a thunderstorm was going off around them and he was trying to kiss the lightning. McCree had pulled away when Hanzo sank his teeth into his lip. “Okay, okay,” McCree had said, sucking his bitten lip. “Just making sure you’re still you,  _ amado _ .”

Hanzo had tipped his chin with a slow smile. “I think you need more convincing.”

“McCree. McCree, you there?” 

“Howdy, yeah--” McCree rubbed one eye. “I’m here.”

“I got a read on Hanzo’s GPS. It looks like… According to the map it looks like it’s in an alleyway. It’s not moving.”

McCree felt his blood go cold, sunk right through the earth.

“Jesse? Jesse McCree, I need you to keep talking to me. I need you to keep it together. We don’t know anything yet. I’m pulling Jack and Winston into the loop.”

“Here,” Jesse said through all the white noise in his head. He gripped the railing, sat down slowly on the cement of the balcony, breathing in the wet California heat. “Still here.” 


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of this update. I kept trying to end the chapter but the characters just. Kept. Doing. Things. 
> 
> Find me @ Corvidfightclub.tumblr.com for grumblings about updates.

Hanzo woke to feeling his head bobbing loose on his neck, then falling--he grunted when his shoulder struck something hard. The light felt harsh, his vision blurry even when he squinted, a headache beating against his forehead like a drum. Heavy footsteps walked past him.

“Sombra, secure your goddamn hostage.” The man’s voice again, dark and sharp.

“You searched him already. It’s fine.”

They argued in quick Spanish. Hanzo recognized a few of the more colorful words. He twisted his wrists at the small of his back, testing his bindings. 

Another woman’s voice asked, “Hostage?” Lighter footfalls, then a slender woman stood over him. “Nobody told me about taking hostages.” Swift, she grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling his head back to peer at his face with strange gold-green eyes. She frowned blue lips and tore open the left side of his shirt, revealing the tattoo climbing his chest and down his arm.

“Shimada,” she said. “Hmph.” The woman flicked the hair at his temple. “You dyed it.”

Hanzo jerked away from her touch, searched his memory, trying to place this woman. Men disappearing, later found with bullets in their heads. Shot from afar.

A spider.

Gripping what remained of his shirt, the woman with the strange eyes pulled Hanzo across the floor. “Reaper, assist me,” she demanded.

A whooshing sound, then suddenly Reaper was there, glaring into the woman’s face with his white mask. “ _ Qué _ ,” he growled low. 

Her expression didn’t change. She nodded to a scarred coffee table in front of a worn sofa, “It’s the sturdiest thing in the building.”

Hanzo sucked in a breath through his teeth when claws sank into his shoulder, dragged him up onto the coffee table. His back hit the wood and Hanzo slammed his heel up into Reaper’s chin, rolled from the table when the blue woman grabbed for him and ran for the door. Steps from it he felt something small hit his back, then pain licking through him as his muscles seized, dropping him to the floor. 

Reaper pinned him just as the electric pulses ceased, his body relaxing. He didn’t feel the thin taser needles as they were pulled from his skin, only the rush of relief after pain has fled. Reaper struck him once, twice across the face. Hanzo tasted blood as Reaper and the blue woman wrestled him again to the coffee table, binding him to it with rappelling wire. 

“You need to learn some manners,  _ chico _ ,” Sombra admonished, nodding a  _ gracias  _ when the blue woman handed her the taser needles. “Otherwise we might lose our working relationship, you follow me?”

Hanzo yanked at his restraints. “What do you want?” he snarled.

“The list is as long as my arm,” Sombra said. Tucking the taser away, she sat on the old couch, resting her face on one hand. “But let’s talk about you,” she said, tapping the tip of his nose with one augmented finger. “You are in a very...versatile position.” Chuckling to herself, Sombra swiped her hand through the air in front of his face. Holo-displays blinked open, a picture of himself from years ago, recent newspaper clippings detailing activities of the families. “How much do you think one of these bosses would pay to gut you like a fish themselves?  _ Jefe  _ Shimada himself under their knife? Your family has a lot of enemies. They’ve only gotten stronger since you left.”

“The sky is blue, water is wet,” Hanzo said flatly. She was like a jay bird describing the current to a water dragon.

Sombra’s smirk remained. She flicked a few of the display windows aside until one was left. Hana’s face was in the foreground of the photo, making a silly expression for her Instagram. They stood together in the background--McCree and himself, following in Hana’s wake, sharing food from a street vendor. It was from the first time they had convinced Hanzo to visit Puente Mayorga and walk the beach.  

“There are a lot of pictures of you on the internet,  _ chico _ . But this is the only one out there in which you are smiling.” Sombra placed two fingers on the photo and moved her fingertips apart, zooming in on their faces, on his grin and McCree’s under the brim of his hat. “This cowboy must mean a lot to you.” She moved her hand away. More display windows popped open around the photo, wanted posters for Jesse, an old black and white photo of Jesse from a police line-up. “Imagine being the bait that gets him a bullet in the head.”

Hanzo set his jaw. 

“A lot of those bounty hunters have pockets as deep as a yakuza boss, especially with a reward that big waiting for them,” Sombra mused. The windows began winking out, last to close was Hana’s photo.

Rising from the couch, Sombra stretched and sighed. “I’ll let you get back to your brooding, Shimada-san. I have work to do.” She left the room with a small wave.

The room was empty. He was alone.

Hanzo let his head drop back to the tabletop and stared at the ceiling. Years ago, there would have been no second path in his mind. He would have forced their hand, get them to sell him to the families. If he died, it would’ve been a death he’d prepared for. 

Selfish feelings, desperate feelings, they wrapped around his heart, saying no, he would not let a stolen photo be the last he’d see of Jesse. That was unacceptable. He would not allow it. He would escape.

He’d find a way.

 

\--    

 

Sombra sat at her makeshift workspace made out of an old bunk and some wood planks she was sure used to be a doorway. The building was an old hostel, long since condemned. She swiped up on her console, maximizing the decryption programs she had running. They were taking twice as long as usual. Her Japanese was bad and their coding was complicated. 

“Your angle is a bigger paycheck?” Reaper said, leaning against the wall behind her in sweatpants and a black sweatshirt, arms crossed. 

Sombra snorted, “I like escape plans. He’s our meal ticket out of Japan if this mission goes bad. Insurance against Overwatch is a plus.”

“That little faith in us, huh,” Reaper said. He walked to the old dresser serving as her device hub and picked up a teleporter shaped like a smartphone. The gorilla’s tech, her design. “What about if the mission succeeds, eh?”

“I’m keeping my options open,” Sombra said. She flicked him two display windows with the bid interfaces, one for the bounty hunters, one for the yakuza. From the depths of his sweatshirt hood, Reaper watched the rising numbers as the pages auto-refreshed and whistled low. Standing there in his plain clothes, holding what looked like a cellphone, he looked so normal. Just another man on the street.

Sombra had asked him once, “Who were you, you know, before?”

No hesitation, Reaper had answered, “An idiot.”

  
  


\--

 

Jack Morrison skidded to a halt in the small parking lot of a closed gas station, breathing hard, hand going to his comm. “McCree, status.”

He could hear panting breaths, running, then angry shouts in Japanese over the commlink. Swearing, Jack changed to McCree’s channel and demanded, “Agent McCree, status  _ now _ .” He switched his visor to tracking heat signatures and turned slowly.

“Almost done,” McCree answered.

Jack caught a flash of red at the edge of his vision and took off running. He made it around a dumpster in the middle of an alleyway in time to see McCree’s silhouette aim his gun at something hip-height behind a pile of trash, could hear the quiet pleas, then the odd sound the silencer on McCree’s revolver made, swallowing the reverb of his shot.

Closer, Jack saw another body on the other side of the dumpsters, face down. Another one half buried in a stack of wood pallets. “Stand the  _ fuck  _ down, McCree,” Jack yelled.

Cool as a cucumber, McCree was wiping the barrel of his gun on the edge of his serape as Jack caught up to him. “All clear, Jack,” McCree said like he’d been picking tomatoes instead of shooting young schmucks trying to run with the yakuza. 

“Didn’t you get the brief?” Jack railed. “We’re supposed to try and take them alive.” 

“Tried that,” McCree said, holstering his gun. “They didn’t seem too keen on it, though. Thought I’d oblige.”

Jack rubbed his forehead. “You have some things on your mind--I get it--but soldier--”

“Ain’t a soldier,” McCree cut in. He tucked a cigarello into the corner of his mouth, pulled out a lighter and lit the end. 

“The hell you aren’t. I’m taking point on this mission so you better wise up and ease off your trigger.”

McCree turned his head, spit. “Reyes couldn’t make me a soldier. Neither can you, Morrison. Bless your heart for thinkin’ so.” McCree tipped his hat and swaggered off in the direction of the extraction point. 

Jack watched him go, took in a breath, counted to eight, let it out again. They’d sent Mei to investigate the GPS signal from Hanzo’s comm with Lucio as support. She had the best chance at blending in, going unnoticed. No ransom notes yet, no bodies turning up. Since they got the call, McCree hadn’t slept, ate when he had to, insisted on being out finishing up the mission. Too much anger, not enough places to work it off. The second they were done in California, Jack knew McCree would be on a flight to Japan with or without Overwatch sanction. 

As former Strike Commander, Jack prided himself on knowing his agents. He knew where they came from, he knew where they were going. As well as he knew Jesse, he hadn’t counted on the cowboy shacking up with a Shimada crime boss.

Genji had vouched for his brother more times than Jack could remember until he finally got permission to invite Hanzo to Gibraltar. On a probationary basis had been Jack’s condition. He wanted a good long time to feel out someone who’d attempted to kill his own brother. Jack hadn’t been sure what to expect but Hanzo hadn’t been it. 

It had been sunny, dry, Fareeha sitting shotgun with him in the hover jeep at the checkpoint just before the mainland. They had seen Genji first, jogging up the rocky hill, stark white against the blue of the sky. Hanzo had followed close, keeping pace like a shadow. 

Jack and Fareeha had met them a few yards from the jeep. Genji had reached them first, gave a quick two-fingered salute. Hanzo had walked the last few feet and Jack had felt Hanzo’s scrutiny with every step. Maybe Jack had expected someone more craven, dripping with penance. Instead Hanzo had met his gaze squarely, weighing Jack like a sack of flour, almost a challenge. Jack had felt old suddenly, wary. Whether Hanzo had been trying to turn a corner or not, no amount of rehab was going to change what Hanzo had been molded into.

Hanzo had kept to himself for the first couple days. On occasion he’d been seen sitting with Genji, but was more often on his own, stalking the grounds of the base, memorizing it. Tracer had been the first to try and introduce herself and was met with a formal, clipped introduction that had flustered her. Despite that, Hanzo had somehow picked up everyone’s name within the first twenty-four hours of his stay and the general direction of their living quarters. 

Day three, Jack had pulled Genji into a meeting room after breakfast.

“Has Hanzo done something?” Genji had asked before Jack said anything.

Jack had scrubbed at the back of his head with one hand. “He hasn’t. I’m just...concerned,” he’d replied. “I’m gonna be frank with you, Genji, I feel like we let a coyote into the chicken coop.”

“You didn’t,” Genji had answered. “We let in a dragon who is trying to remember what it’s like to be a man.” Then Genji had sighed, the green glow of his visor dimming. “Hanzo is--” The cyborg gestured with one hand. “My brother is a hard man. I have no excuses for him, save that much has been expected of him from a young age.”

“I feel like he’s cased everybody. Already knows how he’d take each one of us out,” Jack had muttered.

Jack had felt a flash of annoyance from Genji, even though he couldn’t see Genji’s face. 

“He probably has. He knows none of you, has no reason yet to trust you. If you decided to turn on him, he thinks he would have no one to rely on but himself.”

“Not even you?”

Genji had shaken his head once, facing away. “I am still a ghost to him,” Genji had said, lifted one hand, had watched as his cybernetic fingers flexed. “A reminder of what he’s done. Only time will prove him wrong.”

“Ah, sorry,” Jack had apologized. “We recently got the team back.” When Genji had laid it out for him, it was obvious Hanzo was taking measures for his own security, doing what was familiar. He still hadn’t been comfortable with it, but Jack had been willing to give Hanzo more time to figure out the team were exactly what they seemed like. 

Jack flipped up his tactical visor and wiped the sweat from around his eyes. No matter how many iterations of the damn thing they went through, it still didn’t breathe enough. He followed McCree’s trail back towards the extraction location. His gut said Hanzo was alive somewhere in Japan. A man that tough didn’t go out quietly. Jack hoped Hanzo was smart enough to realize they were looking, that they’d find him and get him out of whatever mess he’d gotten into.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little light torture in this one, just FYI.

“How’s it looking up there?” Mei asked on the comm channel as she wove her way down the street, taking in the tiny izakayas and sake shops. The whole street smelled like food--good food. 

“Looking good, snowflake!” Lucio answered. He was perched somewhere overhead, keeping an eye on things. “So, when we’re done here, ah--you wanna get lunch? This place smells amazing.”

Mei made a noise of agreement, pushing up her glasses. “Hanzo certainly knows where to eat.” She took out her cellphone, watching the pulse of Hanzo’s comm get closer. “Whoever they are--they have guts,” she murmured. “This is one of the busiest sections of the district.”

“They might not anymore. Guts, I mean. I would not want to mess with Hanzo.”

Adjusting her earbud, Mei paused on the corner of the alleyway and pretended to make a phone call. “Are you afraid of him, Lucio?” she asked, smiling.

“No,” Lucio said too loud. 

“I don’t think I believe you,” Mei said. She tucked her hand into her pocket, cupped her hand around the small travel version of her blaster in her coat as she walked into the alley. She’d known her share of men who took themselves too seriously while staring down their nose at everyone else. Science was full of them. If you ignored the whole yakuza thing, Hanzo wasn’t much different than her old Thermodynamics professor. You nodded and smiled until your thesis paper was heavy enough to crush them with truth. “He’s not that scary.”

“I didn’t say that, stop putting words in my mouth. He’s just real serious all the time. I feel weird around people who don’t laugh much.”

“He laughs. I’ve seen it,” Mei answered, walking around a few trash cans, past a few smaller, cheaper bars.

“That’s because Jesse could make a rock laugh, whether he’s trying to or not.”

“You’re not wrong,” Mei said, pausing at the chainlink fence. She took out the mini ice blaster from her coat and froze off the lock. One hit with butt of the handle and it shattered, the fence swinging open with a creak. “I’m close. Some radio silence while I look around.” Blaster in hand, Mei walked further down the alley, almost on top of Hanzo’s comm signal.

“Roger that, snowflake. Area’s clear,” Lucio said.

Mei swallowed, her throat getting tight as she got closer to the wall at the end of the alley.

Ping. Ping.

Pingpingpingping--

Mei knelt down and pawed through a small pile of garbage collected in the corner. Hanzo’s comm came rolling out from under an empty candy wrapper. She brushed aside scraps of an old newspaper. There was a smear of blood on the pavement. Mei fished in her coat for a swab and a plastic sample bag. “Found a little blood along with the communicator,” she reported. “Whoever it was still has their guts intact.” Tucking away the earbud and blood sample, Mei shifted to get up and heard a distinct ‘click’.

“Oh no,” she breathed.

“What’s up?” Lucio was asking.

Mei stayed still, looking around her until she saw the thin line running across the pavement to a dumpster on the other side. “Trip wire,” she said.

“Shit, girl--hold tight while I--”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Okay.” Mei pointed her blaster towards the dumpster, wishing she had the bigger version. If she had the math right, it could put enough of a wall up between her and the bomb to duck behind. She let out a slow breath. Squeezed the trigger back and slowly built up a small ice blind between herself and the dumpster. Sweat gathered on the small of her back and made her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose, but her hands were steady. 

“Mei, we need a bomb squad--”

“We don’t have the resources here,” she snapped, not meaning to but the stress started getting to her. “If we call in the locals, they’ll figure out we’re agents. We can’t let them know Overwatch is in poking around Japan yet. Anybody who’ll know anything about Hanzo will head for the hills.” Mei made herself take a deep breath. “Stepping off the wire in three, two--”

“MEI--”

Throwing herself down behind the small hill of ice, Mei covered her head with her arms and waited.

Waited.

Mei opened one eye, then the other. She turned her head, looking at the distorted shape of the dumpster through the ice. There was a rustling sound followed by a tiny, electronic “eh eh eh”.

Crawling forward on her elbows and knees, Mei reached the edge of her ice hill and peered around it, pushing her glasses up. 

Walking insistently into the corner made by the dumpster and the alley wall was a small electronic dog with purple fur, yipping every few walk cycles. 

“Mei, do you read?”

“Y-yes. I’m here,” she answered, adjusting her comm in her ear.

“Oh thank fuck. What’s that sound?”

“A toy dog.”

“...run that by me again.”

“What appears to be,” Mei said, shuffling forward on her knees, ice blaster held low in both hands. “An electronic toy dog. Common mall kiosk variety, I’d say.”

“I’m trying to decide if I should laugh,” Lucio said.

“Do me a favor and don’t,” Mei grumbled. She stood up and walked closer, peering at the toy. “There’s writing on the side. I’m going to try picking it up.”

Lucio chuckled, “Don’t let it bite you. Might give you nano-rabies.”

Ignoring him, Mei grabbed the dog with a hand around its back and picked it up, turning it so she could better see the writing. It was in black marker, the word “Love” with a quickly drawn heart and a small drawing of a cartoon skull. Mei tucked her gun into the crook of her arm so she could get her phone out and take a picture of the writing. “I’ve seen this before, but I can’t place it,” she said, texting it to Lucio. 

“It’s loading,” Lucio said.

Mei slid her phone away and the dog stopped moving mid-stride, its mouth hanging open in a yip that never came. Frowning, Mei turned the toy around again, looking for a panel to open. Maybe the batteries had died?

“It’s do--Get out of there, now.” 

Walking around her melting ice hill towards the mouth of the alley, Mei asked, “What’s going on?”

“Run!”

Mei broke into a jog, “What--”

The first explosion on the roof overhead knocked her into the alley wall as she ran, showering her in dust and chunks of concrete. A second, a third, following her along the rooftops on either side of the alley. She cleared the alley and kept running, burying herself in the panicking pedestrian traffic, the purple dog under one arm.

“What is that symbol?” Mei shouted into her comm.

Lucio answered her, out of breath, “Talon.”

_____ 

Fareeha sat back in her office chair, staring at the computer screen, feeling uncomfortable until she minimized the window. She took a sip of cold coffee, played with the broken arm of the chair that never came up higher than her hip. She’d gotten the short stick of admin work this time around, sorting information as it came in, then firing it off to the correct parties. A necessary evil they hadn’t augmented Athena to handle.

She would rather be sentenced to a day of burpees. 

Athena’s interface popped up in the corner of her screen. “Should I forward the information to Agent McCree?”

Fareeha crossed her arms. “Hold off for now. Thank you, Athena.”

“Acknowledged.”

McCree was on his way back on the jet with the rest of the team. Maybe that’s what made her hesitate; McCree not going off half-cocked and defecting to fly to Japan like a desert storm. She had phoned Morrison at check-in and had asked, “Did he go?”

Puzzled as she, Jack had answered, “I’m not holding my breath, but he’s still with us. I thought he would’ve gone MIA already and head for Japan.”

Fareeha got out of her chair and grabbed her mug, going to the kitchenette for more coffee. She imagined phoning in to McCree with the intel. Her mind’s eye saw him jump up from his seat, grab a parachute, then barrel his way out a side hatch.

Then again, perhaps that wasn’t fair. She should’ve given the cowboy more credit. He’d done a lot of growing up since Overwatch originally disbanded. The man who’d walked back into Gibraltar to answer the recall was not the lanky, angry-mouthed teenager she remembered. 

Likely for the best. Otherwise things with Hanzo might’ve fallen out very differently. 

While the rest of the residents had been happy to fall back into familiar routines on base, Hanzo had been reclusive as a feral cat; one might see him in passing but he made no effort to adhere to anyone’s social expectations or schedule but his own. It had taken Genji’s intervention to get Hanzo to at least attend her sparring practices. She was a staunch believer that everyone--especially snipers--needed hand-to-hand combat training. To her dismay, Hanzo had brought a book and sat on the benches, reading instead of watching her demonstrations on the mat with everyone else.

With anger coiling in her gut, she’d called, “You’re here to learn, Mister Shimada.”

“You have nothing to teach me,” he’d replied without looking up from his book.

Fareeha had taken a steadying breath, then had smiled and folded her arms. Two could play this game. “Then perhaps you have something to teach us?”

Reinhardt had put a hand over his mouth, eyebrows high in mock scandal. 

The room had gone quiet. All eyes on Hanzo, expectant. 

Sighing, Hanzo had snapped his book shut and rose from the bench, walking to the mats. “I will need a student to assist me,” he had said.

“Takers?” she had asked, looking around. There had been a few seconds when she’d thought nobody would volunteer, then she’d heard an “aw hell” and McCree had pushed himself to his feet, tugging up his exercise pants. (For which Fareeha had been glad. He had split his jeans more than once and had since learned to wear more giving fabrics.)

Jesse had grinned, “I’m your huckleberry, Shimada.”

Smiling to herself, Fareeha had motioned everyone back a few steps on the mat to give the presenters space. She couldn’t have asked for a better outcome. The recruits knew Jesse as a cowboy, brash and forward, not an ounce of subtlety in his tawny body. That’s what he’d preferred instead of being looked at as an ex black-ops agent with enough training to make any security professional worth their salt nervous. 

McCree had swaggered to face off with Hanzo, who had looked puzzled.

“Hakkuruberi kana…”

McCree had raised a brow, “Say what now?”

Shaking his head, Hanzo had replied, “Never mind.” He had given a shallow bow, which McCree had copied, then had tapped his shoulder, showing Jesse where to aim. Jesse had obliged, throwing an uncomplicated punch at the spot. Quick as water, Hanzo had laid him out on the mat, face down and groaning in pain. Hanzo had bent Jesse’s arm in a way it was not meant to go and used it to hold him down. Dropping his knee to McCree’s shoulders, Hanzo had faced the group. “I could break his arm,” he had said, matter-of-fact, as he had indicated Jesse’s forearm in his grip. “Or his neck,” Hanzo had continued, motioning to his knee.

McCree had made a pained sound and punched the mat with his free hand.

So Hanzo had begun to teach. Smooth, precise, and lethal as he had maneuvered with Jesse around the mat. McCree, for his part, had been a good sport, letting himself be thrown around like a rag doll for the demonstrations. They had ended as they had begun, facing off with short bows to each other. 

While Fareeha had assisted setting the others up with partners for practice, she had watched Hanzo and Jesse out of the corner of her eye. 

“Damn,” Jesse had been saying, shaking out his arms. “You got a mean hold.”

“If by ‘mean’ you meant ‘effective’, then yes,” Hanzo had answered.

Jesse had grunted, smoothing down his beard. “You wanna go for real this time?”

Hanzo’s stare could’ve withered a plant, but Jesse had paid it no mind.

“Or are you afraid of little ‘ole me?” Jesse had said. 

“It seems you are the only one to have learned nothing from this lesson. I will teach you another.” Hanzo had stepped back onto the mat and beckoned. 

Jesse had grinned, showing too many teeth. He had taken off his hat and tossed it like a frisbee onto an unoccupied chair. 

The two of them had gone at it for long spans, grappling, throwing, avoiding, until Jesse made an unlucky step and Hanzo tripped him up and they both went down in an angry tangle. It couldn’t be said who had won or lost, only that both had come away irritated and unsatisfied. 

From that point forward they had fought like roosters at every opportunity, on and off the mats. Mei and a few others expressed their dismay over it. Fareeha had been happy to let them figure it out between themselves rather than intervene. Better that they handled it before missions started again. Genji had agreed, seeming more amused than anything. 

The feud ended just as suddenly as it had started. Hanzo and McCree had become quiet in each others’ presence, yet didn’t avoid each other. The awkward silence that had stretched for days somehow became comfortable. McCree would crack a joke and Hanzo might chuckle. Fareeha had to assure Genji he wasn’t having a heart attack when Hanzo accompanied them to the beach in plain clothes, though he often broke from the group to walk the tide line by himself. After, Hanzo landed himself in a fair amount of trouble over the op in Frankfurt and Jack put him on probation for it. McCree had seemed just as put-off as everyone else, and then touches, careful, unsure, murmured conversations between the cowboy and the yakuza boss when they thought no one saw. 

Fareeha poured creamer into her coffee, added two sugars and went back to the desk. She stared at the browser window minimized to the toolbar. She already knew what it displayed. An anonymous tip had come through, pointing her to a VPN based in Mexico and a web address. Jumping at the chance to avoid going through a stack of fanmail, phishing attempts, and advertising emails, Fareeha and Athena had spent the better part of an hour hacking into the network with Lucio supporting them via text messages. The website was for betting on horse races in Hokkaido, Japan. Nothing exciting, it seemed. She looked at the email again and found a text file attached called _login. 

Otōto  
435thex

She had tried the information as a login and got an error. Annoyed, Fareeha had sat back, arms crossed. This wasn’t her forte. Shehad looked at the site again, then tapped the only link in English: VIP. Another login interface had popped up and she entered the information. Her heart had thudded in excitement as the loading animation started. 

When the had page finished loading, it had taken her a minute to make sense of what she was looking at. There had been pictures of weapon blueprints with their specifications blurred out, rare artifacts, pieces of tech, all with exorbitant amounts of yen listed next to them and rising. She had been about to scroll when her gaze caught on a photo front and center.

Hanzo’s eyes were closed, the purple dusting of a bruise on one temple. His nose and lip were bloodied. Out cold, but his coloring said he was alive.

The numbers rising next to his picture were the highest on the page. All three sets of them.

Fareeha sipped her coffee. Athena was running traces on the bidders. She’d have names and last known locations for Jesse when he got back to Gibraltar. Then he’d know how many bullets to take with him. 

\--------

 

He heard the ocean, hissing and crashing closeby. The roughness of Jesse’s serape around his shoulders, the musk of his cigarillos close and warm.

My summer wine is really made from all these things... 

The blue woman was watching him from her seat on the couch, her golden eyes staring and vacant. 

Hanzo jerked further awake. Rappelling wire still bound him to the table and squeezed his limbs when he fought against it. A dark chuckle made him turn his head. 

“She sleeps with her eyes open,” Reaper said. “Creepy, isn’t it?” He took a drag on the cigarillo he held in one sooty hand, his face hidden in the darkness of a hooded sweatshirt.  
Ignoring him, Hanzo turned his attention to the ceiling, exhaling to calm his nerves.

“Kinda sad. They opened up her brain, stuck a fork in there and made scrambled eggs. She knows how to do two things now: find people and kill them. I’m stuck here babysitting to make sure she doesn’t off you before you’re useful.”

Reaper blew cigarillo smoke in his face. Hanzo squinted through it. 

“Don’t be pretend you don’t like it. Word on the street is you’re sweet on my boy, Jesse. Where do you think he gets his good taste from?”

A hand fisted in Hanzo’s hair, keeping his head flush with the table. Searing pain made his breath short when Reaper slowly ground out his cigarillo on Hanzo’s exposed collarbone. It is nothing, he told himself, remembering the pain of the tappers setting ink in his skin for hours on end. His father was traditional. He would have accepted nothing less from his heir. 

“Tough guy, huh. My favorite.” Reaper grinned, his teeth eerily white against the dark shapes of his face. “Means I get to be creative.”

Sombra’s voice came from the direction of the door, “Back it up, Reaper. Stop damaging the goods.”

“A man’s gotta entertain himself somehow,” Reaper answered, flicking the stub of his cigarillo at her. “If you were smart, you’d hamstring him. No more running even if he gets free.”

Sombra made show of pinching the bridge of her nose. “The offer I posted said, in these words, ‘perfect condition’. I’m a woman of my word, Reaper.” Sombra pointed her finger in his face. “No hamstringing, no bone breaking, nada, si?”

Reaper stroked his chin in the depths of his hood. “Not much of a challenge.”

Eyes narrowing, Sombra said, “I will bug your suit.”

“Puta.”

“Pendejo.”

After one last vicious shake, Reaper let go of Hanzo’s hair and stormed into another room, a veil of darkness following close behind.

Sombra rolled her eyes. She trailed a finger along Hanzo’s arm as she walked by. “You’re lucky I like you, Shimada-san.”

“It’s not mutual.”

“Too bad!” she sang back.

He waited until her footsteps faded into her makeshift office, then flexed his muscles one by one, his attention on the still sleeping Widowmaker. Had he been bound with rope, he would’ve had some chance of wearing it out, weakening it until he had an opening to escape. Metal would prove more difficult. He’d likely have better luck trying to break the table he was bound to. He pulled one wrist, then the other, hearing the metal dig into the wood, the burn on his collarbone a sharp throb. He had little doubt Reaper would return when Sombra wasn’t present to reprimand him, next time with something more debilitating in mind. The only other recourse was waiting until they had to move him. 

That would be cutting it too close.

Hanzo stilled, closing his eyes. It was far too easy to fall asleep. He might have a concussion. 

Too close.

\--------------

“ETA to Gibraltar Watchpoint, three hours.”

Jesse tugged the brim of his hat lower over his eyes and tried to go back to dozing. He could sleep through most anything, he reckoned. Took him a long time to learn and maybe it weren’t fair of him, but a man had to get on somehow. Every time he cleared his head, started to drift, that sharp fear would knife him in the darkness behind his eyelids.

Hanzo.

Shifting, sighting out his nose, Jesse crossed his arms, the plane shaking around them in turbulence.

Fine. His brain was so keen on spinning him up about Hanzo, he’d let it, but on his terms. 

They hadn’t gotten on well when they’d first met. People on high horses always bothered McCree, and Hanzo came in riding the highest he’d ever seen, all clipped tones and cold stares. Something about him must’ve bothered Hanzo, too, ‘cause Hanzo had been all too willing to work it out with him at sparring practice. 

They had come away exhausted, but still mad as hell. 

McCree had started putting in extra time with Fareeha to brush off the rust. He had wanted to grind Hanzo’s imperious face into the floor something awful. It was his first thought in the morning and his last thought at night before dropping off to sleep. One morning saw him up well before the rest of the base, so he’d gone to the gym area to get some practice in, couldn’t let up. 

Hanzo had been there already, working through a set of pull-ups on the bars. Then he’d seen Jesse and dropped to his feet, neat as you please. He’d jerked his chin towards the mats and Jesse had nodded, dropping his hat on a bench on the way by. 

They were both down, grappling on the floor before the third pass at each other. Hanzo had been over him, leaning into a hold that McCree swore made his metal arm creak when something in Jesse gave out--he’d had enough, had to find some way to break Hanzo’s concentration--so he’d kissed him. Damn near bloodied his own lip against Hanzo’s teeth. Jesse had never seen a man disengage so fast. The look of shock on Hanzo’s face had been satisfying at first, but then his face had gone pale. Hand slapped over his mouth, Hanzo had hustled out of the gym, leaving Jesse sitting on the mat, blinking.

Minutes had gone by and Hanzo didn’t return. 

Dusting himself off, Jesse had gone outside for a smoke feeling sheepish and kinda like a cheater somehow. He’d sat down on one of the benches overlooking the cliffs and the ocean. Favorite place of his to cool off. He’d taken out the small flask he kept in his jacket and took a swig, singing to himself as he’d looked up at the fading stars.

 

Strawberries, cherries,   
And an angel’s kiss in spring.   
My summer wine is really made from all these things. 

McCree didn’t know why it had been that song. Maybe it was the cool breeze and the smell of the ocean. 

Not long after, Hanzo had found him somehow. He’d sat next to McCree at a respectable distance, hands resting on his thighs, staring straight ahead.

McCree had scratched the back of his head. “Hey, sorry about the kissing thing. That was outta line. I usually ask or at least take ya to dinner first.”

Hanzo hadn’t said anything right away. It had made Jesse nervous, him just sitting there, silent. Then Hanzo had said, “I apologize for my behavior. I should not have left the mat.”   
Jesse had stared at him. Decided not to press it and grunted. “No foul.”

Hanzo had released a long sigh through his nose. The wind had come up, tugging at them. “I had a teacher long ago. Hotohori-sensei. I have not thought of him in a very long time.”

Worrying at the end of his cigarillo, Jesse had let the words sit there. This had been the most he’d heard Hanzo speak since Genji had hauled him back to Gibraltar and Jesse hadn’t been sure how to take it. Should he stay quiet, see if Hanzo talked more on his own? Should he join in? Had he even wanted to? He had looked at Hanzo in the dim light, had a sudden realization that Hanzo was, under all the glares and silence, was a man he had known nothing about. 

“He the guy that trained you?”

“Mm.” Hanzo had shifted, head dipping ever so slightly. “He was a good man, a stern man. Honorable.” 

Jesse had offered Hanzo his flask of whiskey. “He not around anymore?”

Sniffing the flask, Hanzo had taken a swallow from the flask. “The family had him killed.”

Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, Jesse had taken the flask when Hanzo had passed it back. He’d felt like the conversation had just taken a swan dive off a short cliff. 

Hanzo’s expression had tightened until Jesse thought his face would crack, then Hanzo had gotten up, gritting out a gomen nasai before stalking away into the half-dark.

Jesse didn’t ken most of that conversation until later. He had been showering off the sweat from sparring when he’d started questioning why he’d kissed Hanzo to begin with. Couldn’t say he often did that with his sparring partners or else Ana would’ve shot him dead long ago for kissing Fareeha. He had thought about being on the mat with Hanzo. The push and pull, the strength of somebody who could take him out if he wasn’t careful… Jesse’s mouth had gone dry and most of the blood had drained out of his head. 

Shit, he’d thought. Shit.

It took him a long time to ask about Hotohori-sensei again. After all the trips to the boardwalk, the screw-up with the Frankfurt mission when they’d all thought Hanzo would be thrown out of Overwatch on his ear, the quiet, sad night between them, driving back from the beach in the old truck.

“So,” Jesse had said to the windshield. “Hotohori-sensei. You were in love with him.”

Hanzo had faced the window, salt-wet hair hiding his face. The truck cab had never been so quiet. 

“I should have known better.”

Jesse had chewed on that all the way back to base. He’d been pissed at Hanzo about Frankfurt like everybody else. Too much. He’d had his own bad patches he’d had to change from, grow out of. 

Hanzo had been trying to turn around a lifetime.

Jesse was out of his seat once the plane had stopped bouncing against the tarmac, was out the hatch and stuffing his hat on his head before anybody could say two words to him. Jack could give the brief. Jesse had other things to do. 

The room was dark, a little musty. Smelled like old smoke and a beer he’d let go to seed on the windowsill. Kneeling beside the bed, Jesse pulled out one of the storage trunks, read the label, and flipped it open. Nestled in the bottom was his old Blackwatch gear along with the first iteration of Peacekeeper. Asides from the gun, it looked like a boxful of darkness. 

Years ago, Gabe had invited him over for dinner in his small apartment with the small alcove in the wall lined with lit candles for Lady Guadalupe. Little photos of former agents were tacked up around her. Killed in action.

“When you’ve been in the business long enough, you get real grateful for the ones who make it out alive,” Gabe had told him. “‘Cause sooner or later, you pay your dues to the reaper.”   
Jesse picked up the old gun and popped the cylinder out then back in.

Hanzo wasn’t going to be part of his dues. 

“McCree.”

He looked up. Fareeha stood in the doorway, watching him with knowing eyes. 

“Going to Japan?” she asked.

“I s’pect,” he answered. 

Fareeha inhaled. “I have something to show you before you go.”


End file.
